


The Snow Has Yet to Fall

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Christmas, I’m sorry, Just angst, M/M, Pining Sherlock, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28319397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: Across from Sherlock there is an empty chair. A place where John belonged. Where he truly belongs, even still. There’s a John-shaped spot where his body has worn the fabric. There’s a John-shaped emptiness in the room he used to occupy. There’s a John-shaped silence in the air, quieter than the snow that has yet to fall.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72





	The Snow Has Yet to Fall

Sherlock doesn’t really know when it became Christmas. The days blend together when there’s nobody around to yell at you to go to bed, that you have to sleep because you’re actually human (sometimes) and your body needs it. But lo and behold, the clock strikes across the street at the cathedral, one two three, four five six, seven eight nine, ten eleven twelve.

Christmas carols play quietly somewhere in the distance. He suspects it’s Mrs. Hudson, who has been up late quite recently with the man friend who comes to call. There’s no snow on the ground, but icy rain collects in the gutters and freezes on the sidewalks, just dangerous and annoying enough to keep people indoors.

It doesn’t seem like Christmas at all. There are no hideous sparkly items displayed in various areas of the flat (he never thought he would miss them). There is no scent of apple cider, no half-decent bread pudding coming from the oven. No glaringly ugly (unironically so) jumpers worn by the small, grumpy man who Sherlock is so fond of.

John. Yes. It doesn’t feel like Christmas without John. And in fact, since John got married and moved in with his wife (silly, if you ask Sherlock), 221B doesn’t really feel like 221B. 

Sherlock looks up from his laptop to the corner where his violin lay atop its case. He plays his violin for nobody now. He rattles off speedy deductions to a vacant room where there is nobody to remind him of how impressive and amazing he is. He has nobody to make tea. He has nobody to be angry with him about the body parts in the fridge and the bullet holes in the wall (Mrs. Hudson gave up on all of those things long ago).

John never gave up on him. He was the first.

Across from Sherlock there is an empty chair. A place where John belonged. Where he truly belongs, even still. There’s a John-shaped spot where his body has worn the fabric. There’s a John-shaped emptiness in the room he used to occupy. There’s a John-shaped silence in the air, quieter than the snow that has yet to fall.

Sherlock never knew the pain of missing someone this much. He hates it. A lot. True, he spent two years away from him while pretending to be dead, but there’s something different in this. Knowing that it would be so easy for either of them to reach out to one another, that it’s a choice now, but they don’t. Knowing back then that he would one day have John at his side again, but knowing now that there’s no guarantee he will. 

To hell with this. There’s no harm in wishing him well. Sherlock picks up his mobile phone and he types a message:

Merry Christmas.

Sherlock stares down at the message for a long time, trying to convince himself to send it. That John actually wouldn’t mind hearing from him—or better yet, that he would be pleased. 

Wishful thinking. He deletes the message and shoves his phone back into his pocket. It’s been a month, and he hasn’t heard from him—why would today be any different?

John’s got his own life now. He’s got a wife, and a home, and a baby on the way. He’s got his own Christmas this year. 

Perhaps one day things will be fine again. But until that happens, Sherlock will just have to make his own tea; he will have to remind himself to sleep. He will forgo the gaudy decorations and the even gaudier jumpers. He will play his violin simply for the joy of the music. And he will take joy in the freedom of having whatever he wants to have in their—his—fridge.

He will fill the John-shaped hole in his life somehow. More cases, more research, more experiments. He will figure it out. And he will miss him still, but he can wait. Perhaps it won’t be forever. 

Sherlock sets his laptop aside and rises from his chair. He walks to the chair that belongs to John, and he grabs it by the arms, and he pushes it into the dining room. He throws a duvet over it. He gathers as many newspapers as he can find strewn about the apartment, and he tosses them into a pile on the chair. 

It’s enough for now. Out of sight, out of mind. 

The lights on the Christmas tree in the neighbouring building dim and flicker off. Sherlock walks to his laptop and shuts it down as well.

“Go to bed,” he tells himself. It’s what John would say if he were here.

So he walks to his bedroom, takes his phone from his pocket and checks it one more time. Nothing. He sets it on his bedside table and puts on his nightgown.

He soon falls asleep, and he dreams of playing Christmas carols on the violin to anyone who will listen.


End file.
